Letting Go
by DoNotTrustThisAngel
Summary: Dealing with loss is never easy, especially when you lose someone close to you. How do France and Spain deal with Prussia's death? One-shot. Bad Touch Trio.


I'm on a roll, two fics in one day! I found this to be depressing, but bittersweet. If you don't like cheesy endings or a**loads of tears, i suggest you go find a different 870 word oneshot.

Disclaimer: Mama doesn't own Hetalia. Plain and simple. Hetalia belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya.

* * *

><p>Two sets of solemn feet crunched across the snow towards a slab of cold, icy marble. Beneath this stone lay the cold body of a man that the two thought that they would never lose. The brunette sniffled and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his winter jacket. The blonde tried to hold back the tears which sprang to his blue eyes. For once, he wasn't acting. They both felt the pain of losing a friend.<p>

"Why? Why now? No te vayas mi amigo..." Spain choked out.

"He didn't deserve this." France said. He gestured around the graveyard. "He did not deserve to be left here alone in the cold."

France set the roses he was carrying in front of the grave.

Snow fell silently on top of the two countries. They didn't care. They were numb from the frost that covered their hearts. The knowledge that they would never see their albino friend again was almost overwhelming.

The funeral had been twice as bad. Hungary had been sobbing into a dark handkerchief; she remembered all the good times they had when they were both young. Austria silently tried to soothe her even though his own eyes were depressed and tired. Germany had remained composed throughout the entire ceremony except for one lone tear that had slid down his face and into his lap. France had cried shamelessly and Spain let the tears run down his cheeks silently.

Of course, they both knew what this meant. He was gone. They knew that Prussia, although he had been entirely too full of himself, would have wanted them to go on with their lives.

Memories were a curse and a miracle. When Gilbert's friends thought of the trouble they had gotten into and the chaos they had caused, they laughed. But later, they would feel the wounds that sliced across their hearts being reopened. Just when they thought they were healing, a painful reminder would tear through the bandages that kept their hearts from falling apart.

Francis and Antonio offered comfort to each other. Others would try to help mend their broken spirits, but no one really understood. No one really could comprehend the sudden emptiness that the two felt.

Unspoken words hung in the air around their heads like icicles. The adventures that would have been now lay with the cold dead body that once belonged to Prussia. They were sealed away under seven feet of frozen ground, never would they be heard from again.

Still, being near him once again gave the two a sense of closure.

Spain bent down and brushed the accumulated snow off of the stone. He let his fingers run over the letters on the marble. It was strange; he could not believe that this simple stone marked the place where someone so important to him lay.

France kneeled next to the Spaniard and draped an arm over his shoulders. He too let his fingers slide against the engraving. His thoughts were equal to those of his equally grieving companion. Gilbert had always been bold and exciting. This stone did not do his adventurous personality justice.

Francis read aloud the words that the two already knew so well, "Gilbert Bielschmidt, 1525-1947.

Remember me as you pass by,

As you are now, so once was I,

As I am now, so you will be,

Prepare for death and follow me."

Antonio sniffled and wiped his nose, "You know what he'd say right now, France? He'd say, 'Why did you two idiots let them put something so unawesome on my gravestone?'" He chuckled a bit.

France laughed a little, "Yes, and then he'd accuse us of trying to make him seem less 'awesome.'"

They stayed by the resting place of their fallen comrade for a little while longer; sharing stories of past battles and recalling the good times they had gone through. When the sun began to set and the gray clouds began to darken, the two stood and brushed themselves off. They said their goodbyes to Prussia and promised that they would return.

The men turned and solemnly walked away, their shoulders brushing with every step, the mere presence of the other comforting the others broken heart. They couldn't help but feeling that another pair of boots should be crunching along in the snow beside them; desperately wanted to hear the third voice laughing along with them.

A chirping from behind startled Spain and France. They turned back towards the grave. There sitting atop the stone was a small yellow bird. Held tightly in the little bird's beak was a small black cross. The bird took off into the air. They watched it fly away.

Suddenly, something dropped into the snow before them. Francis reached down to pick the object up. He gasped and a hand flew to his mouth.

Antonio wrenched the thing from the Frenchman's grasp. He felt his tears return with renewed force. There, in his hands, was the black cross that was always around Gilbert's neck. He flipped the cold black metal over in his hand. He gasped in surprise at the sight he was greeted with.

Carved into the back of the cross was, "To A & F, Auf Wiedersehen Freunde."

* * *

><p>Sorry about the emo mood of the whole fic. (I swear to gosh if I get tons of angry comments from emo kids because of that I'll explode, cause I used to be emo but got help. Fuzz off.) Anywho, please review.<p>

Ps: To all you Gilbert fangirls, don't worry. I has not really killed him off. He is stuffed in my closet. **COMPLETELY ALIVE.**

PSS: No flames or I'll... do something bad...


End file.
